Coming Home
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: Coming home after a tough case, exhausted and worn, John knows that being with Sherlock is where he belongs. Happy Birthday to my friend SailOnSilvergirl! Johnlock Established Relationship.Rated M just because.


**A/N: For my dear friend SailOnSilvergirl. I asked some of our friends for words and these are the contributions to this little story just for you for your birthday:)**

**johnsarmylady –slick, mrspencil – tumbling, mattsloved1 – reflective, Lucy36 – shell and jack63kids – silver**

**Happy Birthday my friend!**

**Special thanks to mattsloved1 who read through this for me. This story is (heavily) influenced by her lovely story To Be With You Again – go and read it:D**

**As usual I do not own. I am sad! And I don't like it!**

Coming Home

He sighed.

He didn't think he would be able to get up from the crouched position he found himself in after tackling the thief to the ground. He closed his eyes, thinking he would just rest there for a minute when he felt someone enter into his personal space the way only one person in the universe did.

Eyes opened reluctantly.

A warm hand was extended and John looked up. Sherlock smiled down at him. It was his true smile, one that only came out to play for him.

"Come, John. Let's get you home."

The case had been long and gruelling and he was exhausted. Living the past few days on little sleep and greasy food had left its mark on the older man. He really needed to try and convince Sherlock to slow down, but he knew even before he finished the thought that that was a losing battle.

He sighed and took the proffered hand, letting the other carry his weight for the second it took to become upright. John stumbled a little, but Sherlock was there to steady him. No one noticed that Sherlock's hand stayed in his a fraction longer than necessary or that there was the merest whisper of a caress as his hand was released, as if his fingers had painted a quiet 'I'm here for you' across his palm. No one saw John tug, ever so carefully on Sherlock's sleeve, letting him know he was okay.

The detective didn't really help him into the taxi, but there were unobtrusive little nudges, timed just right, which guided him into the warmth of the waiting vehicle.

There was little noise between the two men. There didn't need to be. The only break in the cocoon of the taxi was the ambient sounds, which surrounded them from the exterior environment. Falling rain curtained them, acted like a shield. There was the occasional swoosh of another passing vehicle as the tyres rolled over the rain soaked, **slick** surface of the pavement.

The taxi pulled up in front of 221B and the taller of the two climbed out, still retaining some of his boundless energy, the remainder of it would dissipate after a hot meal and a shower.

John climbed out even more slowly, paid the cabbie and followed after as he always did.

Once inside the door it was all he could do to hang up his coat and begin the arduous climb up to the first floor. He sighed as he knew there was nothing to eat in the flat and he didn't think he had the energy to cook anything. The thought of take-away was enough to turn his stomach.

Sherlock was waiting for him just at the top of the stairs, not as if he thought John needed help but as if he were waiting for him in order to enter the flat together, an unconscious declaration they were two people but one mind, one heart, one soul.

John stepped through the door; Sherlock carefully placed a hand on his lower back, a slow, cautious stroke, possessive, but not controlling, guiding but not pushy in any sense of the word. A simple acknowledgement.

To his utter delight, upon entering the kitchen, he noticed Mrs. Hudson had left them a pot of soup and what looked like a loaf of homemade bread. He reached into the cupboard and brought out two bowls and ladled up a hearty soup, full of bits of chicken, carrots and celery and thick noodles. He sliced fresh bread and placed it on a plate. As he carried the two bowls carefully into the other room, he noticed Sherlock was sitting in a **reflective** sort of way. No doubt going over the last part of the case and filing it away, he thought.

Bowls set upon the table, he returned for the bread and then it was his turn to stand in front of his partner. It was his turn to hold out a hand and pull the other up to a standing position.

He looked up into Sherlock's eyes, **silver** in the light of the living room lamps, he felt that tumbling sensation that still happened, deep down, in the pit of his stomach, the one that left him breathless and reminded him of their first kiss when he had decided to simply lean over and pace his mouth on Sherlock's. He had done it because at the time it had seemed right. The kiss, while far from perfect in its execution had been overwhelming in its impact. It had seemed as if he had come home, after a long hard day, just like today had been. Both had been surprised, but it had led them here, to this point in time.

John felt his mouth curl up into a lazy slow smile. He reached up and traced the perfect pale **shell **of his detective's ear.

He reached up on his toes and placed a soft, almost shy kiss on Sherlock's mouth. He then brought him to the table and waited until the younger man had started eating to beginning to consume his own portion.

Leaving the bowls for the morning, he once more placed a hand in Sherlock's and took him to the bedroom. They'd skip the shower tonight.

There was no heated passion, no unquenchable fire that sometimes overtook them and left them shaken and raw. There was no need tonight. But there was the slow kindling of a love that was deep and familiar. That was needed more at this moment.

A slow undressing, unhurried kisses and caresses, limbs wrapped together and soft sighs completed the customs of their homecoming.


End file.
